


take all that you have

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Childhood Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating Disorders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Maggots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27951065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: when things start to feel normal, they start to feel like a home to crawl into. and when you're there every day, you ignore the rotting floors, the cracks in the walls, the way the upstairs bathroom door doesn't entirely close. because it's home, and all of the flaws are carved into its identity.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

you're starting to think there's something broken inside you. plenty of people have tried to set it right, and sometimes you're intact for long enough that you start to believe that you can be intact forever. but there's always a part that breaks all over again. you're starting to feel like a car that should be scrapped for parts. you start to feel like a broken bedframe. 

but when things start to feel normal, they start to feel like a home to crawl into. and when you're there every day, you ignore the rotting floors, the cracks in the walls, the way the upstairs bathroom door doesn't entirely close. because it's home, and all of the flaws are carved into its identity. 

you're starting to think that being broken is all you're good at being. the monster inside your throat, if big enough, if well fed, can sing the most beautiful songs. they ring around the empty hall of your skull, whining, sad songs that etch themselves into the walls. 

and you know everyone has a pet monster of their own, dad keeps saying it's the family way, and you know dean carries something slimier than yours, and you know it's a cliche to feel like you're only beautiful when you're hurting, but you feel it anyway. 

sometimes, when you're quiet enough to hear all the ways the stomach acid is burning through you, you can hear the small broken pieces of your body crack a million times over. so you try to keep from being quiet. 

dean is a good distraction. he fits into you in all the ways you imagine feeling better would. and he hurts you selfishly, without tenderness, and he puts you back together silently. and it sticks long enough to feel like it could be forever. like all you would need is beer-breath and brother-sweat. 

it never lasts. which is fine. the monster can remain hooked into your skin, and you can remain possessed by it's worst impulses. 

the scars on your legs are never left by you. but it's alright, because dean brushes his lips over them. 

when your dad asks, you say you're a virgin, because dean doesn't count as sex. sex is too dirty a word for what dean does to you, too horrible to describe the small ways he creeps inside you, barbed wire and silk touch. so you're not lying, and dad gets to think that the monster is smaller than his own, definitely smaller than dean's, and he gets to move on. 

when the monster start smelling like stolen cigarettes, he's already made his justifications. 

if something is broken inside you, it always will be. there's no good endings for boys like you. 

\--

you start imagining yourself as a ballet dancer. you start measuring the concave of your stomach. the numbers don't change, but if you squint in the mirror, the matter shifts and worsens or brightens depending on the number of bruises left there. 

you count your scars, stop when you reach 50. you count your ribs and think of ripping one out to stab yourself, the rush falling over you all at once. it fades fast enough and you're back to terminally empty. 

you ask dean to get you _diet_ coke, and he never listens. and you stop caring.

the bruises stop healing, and all your scars go this deep purple. you blame it on the chill staggering into the town dad stopped in. you throw out all your t-shirts. 

\--

when your birthday rolls around, you feel the monster crawling at your chest with a renewed passion. your dad isn't there, and your dean keeps saying how big you're getting. fourteen, he says, fourteen. 

you lock yourself in the bathroom until he goes to sleep, and it's hard to rationalize why. you're not scared of him. he's never hurt you, not really, but there's some section of your brain making you sit still in the motel bathtub as he knocks on the door, whispers all the ways he'll click you back into place. 

it's not the worst birthday you've had. but you feed the monster anyway. you think about the tensile strength of your shoelaces. you count your ribs. you tug at your fingernails. your pull all the skin off your lip and swallow it. 

\--

the skin around your fingernails is so raw, the cold hurts. you have to shove your hands into the pockets of your hoodie. the snow under your feet flattens into dense slates in the shape of your footsteps, and you think that besides all the skin your shedding, this is the only mark you'll leave on this town. another unwilling ghost. 

the only world you know is the one that revolves around the terrible place you take in this terrible group of people. dad says all families have their own dysfunction. dean winks at you. 

you think about tearing your rib out and finding his heart with your hands. you know your anger, the swirling and overwhelming bits of blood and tissue, isn't dean's fault. there's something broken inside you, and no matter how long, no matter who tries, no matter the temperature, or the amount of hurt you put yourself through, it'll never fully click into place. you were born with missing pieces. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh wrote this the day after i wrote the first one but didn't finish it in a way i liked. took a break, wrote some other things, came back to it. 
> 
> i really like writing more rough things like this, though im not sure how much other people like reading it lol. and it always comes from a certain headspace that i hate cultivating. i like it though. <3

you know the taste of blood. it swarms your dreams, cradles the worms and maggots pulsating in your stomach. when the nightmares are particularly vivid, when you wake up sweating and seething at the dark, you remember the taste in your mouth. 

the dark is living. it has hands, and they're slitting you open. the dark is bleeding you dry.

you find yourself staring at mirrors so often lately, poking a bitten fingernail at the roots of your gums, proding to see how much blood can fill your mouth. the next night, you have dreams where your teeth sit on a counter across from you, already removed. you keep trying to shove them back into your gums, but you misplace them. a canine where a molar should be, and you keep running out of space. in your desperate attempt to pack your mouth full, you choke on your own blood, and this time-- when you wake up-- you're convinced you've died. 

\--

dean says you look terrible. you can't bring yourself to look into mirrors anymore, but you can only imagine the way your skin has gone pale and thin, how big your head looks for your body. you can only imagine the way the monster has eaten up all your reserves. you feel swallowed whole. 

the monster is a tick, and it is sucking you dry. your bones are going brittle. your mind is pulling apart into a fine, pink mist. it hurts, being pulled apart. but it hurts like a bruise. you keep digging into it. 

dean says he can fit both hands around your waist now, and that's not really how he phrases it, but it's how it comes across. you think maybe it's the happiest you've been in a while. which is shitty to think. you wallow for days in the feeling of being objectively bad, with no hope, no potential. dean says he can swallow you whole, and you beg him to. 

\--

it's hard to remember which town this is, or what you're learning in school. you start sitting in the back of the class, copying the notes of the girl who sits next to you. she takes this as a compliment and tries to cherry-sweet kiss you after school. you think she's trying to crawl into your mouth, and it scares you so bad that your barely held together brain falls apart and swirls around the drain of your brain stem. 

you remember what you're learning. roche limits. the threshold of a body in space, the closest it can get to another body before the gravity of the other tears it apart. the gravity of everything is tearing you apart. 

you beg dean to take you on a date. he orders you peanut butter ice cream, two scoops, and wraps his arm around your waist. and there's a moment where everything is so picture-perfect, where the line between the raw and the sublime thins. the tendrils of the gross life you live relax and sink back into the ground. 

of course, a moment later the ice cream is making you feel sick. you're on your knees in a public bathroom heaving bile into a toilet. afterwards, all you taste is blood. 

\--

dean takes you home and lays you on the broken couch, puts on a movie. the ambient hum of the dingy TV sneaks into your already tangled dreams. the dark reaches out to you again, its fingers in your mouth. stains the insides of your skin so that anyone who takes you apart will see the damage. all you taste is blood, all you taste is sweat and spit forced down your throat. you won't remember much of it, but you'll remember the way dean puts you in the bath afterwards, makes the water as hot as he can, until your skin shrivels off you, until you molt and grow a new one. 

dean uses bubble bath this time, and it makes you think of seafoam, and it makes you think of a place outside of these four dingy walls and the hands of a lashing-out brother. 

you love him, you know. you don't remember the pain so much, so you love him. you'd never tell him to go anywhere else, leave his seed and his seething in any other vessel, you're the only one for him. but you know he's breaking you in some hard-to-define way. you know he's ruining you from the inside, leaving a piece of himself there like an everlasting fire. you know one day it'll burn you up just like the house, just like mom. 

you know it's the only thing that could take you down. and yet you don't tell him to plant himself somewhere else. you see him with girls at school and you wanna rip their heads off. you see him pet a fucking dog and you wanna smash it to pieces, just so he _can't_ go anywhere, just so it's always you in the center of his world. 

you want to tear the building down, dig a hole on the plot, bury the both of you under twelve feet of dirt, until your bones are indistinguishable. until ash and soil melt together. and you've never really felt jealously so sharp over anything else. and you've never felt anything so sharp over anything else. 

you're scared dean is the broken thing inside you. you're scared the seed he planted grew into a monster twisting bile and blood, burning the inside of your throat. you're scared of him. 

it hits you all at once. you cry in the tub, feeling bled and brittle.


End file.
